


Stupid Decisions

by britishbullet



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (additional tags to be added for characters as they come), Angst, F/M, Gen, Kid Clint Barton, Kid Fic, Some Humor, The Barton brothers aren't smart sometimes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-20 08:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1503500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/britishbullet/pseuds/britishbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton has had stupid decisions been thrust upon him, made for him, made by him, and surround him since he was just a kid; he's has seen a lot of what stupid decisions are like and can do and has discovered, he's always been ready for some smart ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stupid

**Author's Note:**

> Short series of a few chapters (unsure of how many long it'll be total), going up through Clint's life from childhood onwards. Drawing from Hawkeye comics and origin stories, as well as a combination of his personality traits from MCU, various comic arcs, and headcanons. 
> 
> In short - enjoy these snippets as they come!

“Where we goin’, Barn?”

 

“Nowhere.”

 

“This is stupid.”

 

“Shaddup.”

 

He was right, he pondered to himself as they pushed back the brush from yet another dry and dusty highway exit ramp and poked their heads out. The traffic was near non-existent and dawn was settling in, sheathing the Iowan countryside in blues, oranges, and pinks. Waverly was bigger than the two boys had thought. They knew they lived just outside the city itself, between the center of Waverly and an even smaller place called Shell Rock. They both knew, or at least the older of the two, Barney Barton, knew that if they kept walking towards Shell Rock and down the length of the highway, hiding under the cover of night, they could go as far West and as far North as they wanted for a long time without seeing a single face up close.

 

“The signs still say 3, Barn.”

 

“I can read, Clint.”

 

“You said it was gonn’ turn into 65 and we were gonn’ go North!” Clint pulled his head back into the brush. The land around them was flat as far as you could see, and with dawn rising quickly, the boys were out in the open during the day and had to lay low. Local sheriffs noticed in small towns when new boys wandered in when they should be at school. Sometimes, they didn’t care enough to bother, had bigger things on their minds (catching the speedsters on the straight and narrow, for example) but if they were particularly bored… “This is a stupid dec…deckision.”

 

“ _Decision_ , Clint.” Barney wasn’t looking at him anymore, he still had his head outside of the brush, watching as a speeding Volkswagen took the highway by storm, rustling up the dust from the corn in the next field over.

 

Clint frowned and pulled his arms across his chest, straightening the dusty red backpack on his shoulders. He wasn’t stupid. He knew how to say that word. Barn would gently correct him (usually), but they had been walking for an entire day (or two, Clint wasn’t sure anymore) and both boys were rather grumpy. Clint knew he had eaten through at least an entire granola bar shoved into his pocket next to the lint that hadn’t been washed out from the boy who wore the jeans previously, and his stomach was rumbling.

 

But he knew better than to complain. Papa never liked it when they complained, and complaining wasn’t proper in a situation like this; Clint learned fast to be tight-lipped and courteous, and to keep the amusing bite in his words locked up. Clint was smarter than he seemed; third grade taught him enough to get by, and he could read at the fifth grade level so says Mrs Bloomington but books weren’t something in high quantity at the Barton household.

 

However, the Barton brothers _did_ know how to run.

 

Barney withdrew his head and reached into his own backpack, pulling out a lukewarm plastic water bottle and handed it to his brother. “Take a swig, Clint – we’re gonna make one more dash for it.” His younger brother took the bottle and quickly inhaled some of the water, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and handing it back. Barney drank about a third of it. Clint knew how to conserve, but Barney was always greedy.

 

“How far away is the next stop?”

 

“I dunno, ‘bout a mile or two,” Barney glanced down the flat empty highway and shrugged, squinting as he set his sights for the barely visible shadows of the next town over. “Or four or five…”

 

Clint winced; his feet ached. They were already about 25 miles or so (27, as the crow flies) away from Waverly and his shoes were hand-me-downs from Barney, who got them from another foster kid, who probably got them from another kid who was particularly well-off, once upon a time. They were a bit too big and the soles flapped if he didn’t run on the tips of his toes now and again to aid the secrecy with which they fled.

 

“You ready?”

 

The younger boy shifted from foot to foot, anxious. “This is stupid.”

 

“Shaddup.”

 

And the boys ran, sneakers leaving dusty footprints in the tarmac highway that was warming up with the rising of the sun, and booked it for the next town.

* * *

 

Rain pitter-pattered on the sheet of tarp they had draped over two large bows of an oak that had split in half weeks ago during the last storm. The ground was damp and they hadn’t thought of grabbing logs along the way to keep dry for kindling; it was too unsafe to light a fire anyway. They could risk being noticed, or the fire could catch if the rain dried out, and the last thing Clint needed was for Barney to be locked up in Juvy for starting a forest fire and for himself to reenter the foster system.

 

The younger boy sat on his old padded denim jacket, another pass-down, and curled his arms around the worn backpack, resting his chin on the top and staring through a hole in the blue tarp. The clouds were moving really slowly, and the rain didn’t show signs of stopping very soon.

 

Barney was whittling a piece of wood the best he could; it was damp and the stick was breaking in places he didn’t want it to, and the bark was peeling off in large chunks instead of small slivers. It seemed as though he was attempting to make a point from the stick; Clint shivered as a gust of wind blew past the open flap of their makeshift tent and Barney tossed the stick to the side with a huff. At least, the tarp Barney had thoughtfully nicked from a farmer’s forgotten barn came in handy and kept the boys reasonably dry. It was still damp, and cold, and quite lonely and scary for an eight year old. Clint’d never admit he was scared though; he was taught early on not to let on that you’re scared of something. It only makes the something you’re scared of even worse in the end…

 

“Barn?”

 

“What now?”

 

“This is like… this is like the Boxcar Children, ain’t it?”

 

“ _Isn’t_ it.”

 

“Isn’t it?” Clint reaffirmed.

 

Their mother used to read them the Boxcar Children stories before bed when they were younger and Clint couldn’t read. Barney enjoyed reading about Henry Alden, the oldest of the four boxcar children, because “ _Henry can do anything! He can… he can help the doctor and gets moneys and protect Benny and his sisters! He’s in charge!_ ” but Clint quite liked the girls, Violet and Jessie. Jessie wasn’t afraid of anything; when Henry in the stories went off to do work to provide the money for the children to eat and survive, Jessie took care of everything back at the boxcar, cleaning, and making sure everything was tidy, in order, and most of all – secret. No one could find them, or they’d be in trouble! Clint thought it was a very important job to have, and he liked making sure everything looked as if it had never been disturbed.

 

Clint remembered liking Violet, too. Violet was shy, but she liked purple and liked animals. Clint thought he would’ve been friends with Violet and Jessie more than Henry. Henry would’ve been bossy, and Clint didn’t like being bossed around very much.

 

He fiddled with the frayed strap of his backpack and expectantly looked at Barney. “We don’t have a boxcar,” Barney finally said.

 

Clint hung his head, “No, we don’t… but, they were orphans and on the run, too…”

 

They hadn’t read many Boxcar Children books before their Papa sold them off to the neighbors for cash; the boys never got to find out what happened to the four Alden orphans or how the mysteries played out in the end. “We don’t solve mysteries either.”

 

Clint sighed, “No, we don’t…”

 

“I’d rather be the Hardy Boys,” Barney stated, picking a damp leaf off the bottom of his sneaker and tossing it outside. Clint’s eyes narrowed; he didn’t know much about the Hardy Boys, only that they were brothers who solved mysteries and that Barney had read a few for school. He didn’t get to that level yet…

 

“That ain’t fair! They solve mysteries too!”

 

“So?”

 

Clint huffed and averted his gaze upward, watching as the rain dripped heavier. At least the Boxcar Children got themselves out of bad decisions, he thought.

 

* * *

 

“This is stupid, Barn and you know it.”

 

 _Thunk, thunk, thunk._ Three solid shots; three arrows embedded in a tree trunk. Nimble, not yet calloused fingers eased the arrows out of the tree by the shafts, each one wiggled out with dexterity and care. They hadn’t found the circus when they were eight and thirteen years old, the circus had found them. The boys had reached the outer limits of Iowa within about three weeks (no one had reported the boys missing; foster homes never cared, and orphanages cared less), with the help of slipping onto local school buses unnoticed and their own two feet. Sitting in a diner with $2 to their name, a pretty young lady with a gap between her two front teeth found them, wormed the story out of Barney, and roped them in.

 

Carson had been furious at first, but Donnie was insistent they could be used for something. “Pete and ‘Lila left two weeks ago – we ain’t got nobody to clean up the popcorn tent or nothin’,” Donnie had crooned at Carson. Truth be told, the nineteen year old acrobat was smitten with Barney and his shock of strawberry ginger hair hidden under a ragged blue cap, and the freckles that dusted his cheeks. Never mind that he had been only thirteen… Now, at twelve and seventeen, they brought in Carson’s Carnival the largest gig attendance the circus troupe had ever seen. “I told ya’,” Donnie sweetly proclaimed after the first week Carson had trusted Jacques, the swordsman, to train both boys and have them give a demo to the waiting crowd outside the tent before the real show started. “They bring in the tips, Carson…them _biiiig_ tips…I think it’s them cute little faces,” she had prefaced with a pinch on Clint’s tanned cheek and a ruffle of Barney’s hair.

 

Barney had taken up finances with Carson instead of continuing to throw knives like he had been taught shortly thereafter. Clint couldn’t count very well, so Jacques kept him.

He didn’t make nearly enough profit as his brother did, anyway. Donnie accused him of being jealous once, as they lay in bed nose to nose, her hair draping around his shoulders, and a snarl had masked his face. “Jealous? Nah, Don you’re full of shit!” His eyes rolled in an almost comical fashion. Donnie would’ve laughed, but instead she pushed her frizzy brown hair back up over her own shoulder, and sat back on her heels. “I can see it, Barney… you’re jealous o’ him. It’s okay y’know, you can ask Carson for a sideshow… like when you’s was little…”

 

“I don’t _need_ a side show!” He had nearly pushed Donnie off of her lumpy mattress before stalking out of the caravan. He hadn’t spoken to her for a week; he was busy…concocting a plan.

 

Barney now stood, leaning against a wooden post to which one of the ‘Ride-A-Pony’ ponies was lazily chewing on straw-coloured, dry, grass, watching his younger brother check each arrow before replacing it in his pack. “Naw, it’ll work fine Clint, just you wait and see.” Clint bit his lower lip, casting one last examining look over each of the twenty arrows stowed in the leather, Native American ‘influenced’ (“ _Got it off a real one in New Mexico,_ ” proclaimed Jacques; Clint didn’t ask how) quiver before undoing the strap and handing it, and his longbow, over.

 

“Can you even draw it back?”

 

A withering scowl met Clint’s eyes as Barney reached for an arrow to nock. He took two paces to the line Clint had drawn in the dirt, and spoke, “I was taught by the same man as you, little bro. I’m as good as, if not better ‘an you.”

 

“You’re not as short as I am though.”

 

“I ain’t.”

 

“ _Am not_ …”

 

“Whatever. I can fit in your get up; it’s nothin’ Donnie can’t fix for me.”

 

Clint’s winced as the creaking of the longbow echoed in his ears and Barney drew back. “You can’t fix it permanently, Barn!” He shouted, and Barney chose the same moment to release, hitting three inches off the center of the spray painted target. Barney threw down the quiver and thrust back the bow.

 

“You did that on purpose!”

 

“Did what?!” Clint questioned in surprise at Barney’s sudden aggression; his voice rose in pitch and hands swiftly gripped the bow and scooped up the quiver, adjusting loose arrows before they tumbled to the ground.

 

“Interrupted me!” Barney shouted. His face was turning red, blotching out the freckles that were beginning to fade as the boy was growing up. “I _can_ shoot just as good as you, and I _will_ and I’m tellin’ ya, _nobody_ ain’t gonn’ be able to tell the difference!”

 

As Barney stalked off into the dusk underneath the trees separating the practice clearing from the circus tent, Clint barely heard his older brother mumble, “Nobody ‘cept you, and me… or else…”

 

Angrily, Clint re-strapped his quiver and ripped off his finger pads, allowing the bite of the string to pierce his skin.

 

_Thud, thud, thud, thud!_

 

“This is _fucking_ stupid…”


	2. Impulsive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint makes some impulsive decisions in his life, some for the better, some for worse.

“I’m not sure this was wise, kiddo.”

 

Pain; unbearable pain lacing through the numbness of his body and spiking in his arms and chest. Clint couldn’t feel his left arm at all through the stinging and pinpricking, which was a shame because that’s the arm he used to draw back the arrows. He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, hoping, praying that he had just torn a muscle from practicing too much. Jacques always forced him to practice late if a shot wasn’t up to his satisfaction during a show, and for the past week, he had taken his anger out from Barney onto Clint. Long, sleepless nights followed big shows and a twinge _had_ started to develop in his shoulder…

 

Multicolored shapes and blobs watered in and out of focus behind his eyelids. Someone was trying to pry them open and shine a light into them and he feebly swatted them away, wrenching his head out of a firm yet gentle grip and squeezing his eyes shut harder.

 

It was probably Barn, and he was probably trying to get him up earlier before they had to be up by playing some stupid game and gloating that he got to keep another wad of cash given to him by Jacques and Clint didn’t… “Go ‘way.” His voice – it was cracked and … that hadn’t been him, right? That moan of indifference…

 

Something prodded at his shoulder and he pushed whoever it was away, screeching suddenly at the force applied which spiked the sensation of pain.

 

“ ‘Fraid not, kid. You’re gonna have to open your eyes; it’ll make things easier, trust me…”

 

Clint slowly became vaguely aware of hands uncurling his body and material replacing the hands, gently but firmly keeping him flat and focused on his shoulder. “What’s your name, kiddo?”

 

“Nobody!” Clint grunted out, finally opening his eyes to find two clean-shaven paramedics and the brilliant, clear night sky of Minnesota. One of the paramedics took the opportunity of a stunned patient to shine a bright penlight into his face to which Clint instinctively recoiled and tugged painfully against the restraint across his chest. An irresistible whimper left his throat as his shoulder burned and left pinpricks of tears in his eyes.

 

“Wanna tell me how that there hole happened, kiddo?” The man with the penlight questioned. Clint blinked and squeezed his eyes shut. Hole? What hole? Turning his head and cracking open a solitary eye, Clint glanced at his shoulder to find a bloodied, tattered shirt that had been ripped away from his arm at the seam. Fibers of the blue fabric had stuck to a messy, jagged wound.

 

The memory hit him like a semi-truck.

 

He had been crouched beneath the caravan of the new acrobat who liked to spend her evenings taking shots of tequila and whisky and god knows what else down at the local bar of wherever they were stationed. Her’s had been more of a modern caravan, not like one of the old wooden wheeled ones that made Clint feel like he was on the trail to Oregon so there was less room underneath. It even had a bit of plumbing for her sink and small gas range, but Clint had been able to fit himself underneath the van and squeeze around the pipes. Currently, the acrobat herself wasn’t home, the lights were off and the caravan door padlocked; Clint knew he was safe for the moment.

 

Barney had been disappearing for a few nights and at first Clint had thought he was off with the acrobat drinking. He was 18, he could almost pass for 21 and he had girls buy him drinks before. Barney at first had always tossed them in potted plants or relocated and ‘forgot’ to bring the drink with him because the thought of alcohol reminded him of their father, but then a few beers happened and Barney… well… Clint would go for walks on those nights. It was better to ignore it.

 

But this night was different.

 

This night ended up with him on a stretcher remembering just how the slicing of a rough and jagged knife into in his shoulder at the hands of his older brother felt and how the sight of a bag of money taken from the next caravan over which belonged to Carson himself had burned into the back of his eyelids and how the words “ _Stupid idea to follow me out here, Clint_ …” echoed like a broken music box in his ears…

 

The medic leaned back over him and forced his gaze to a clean, unshaven face and kind brown eyes, effectively snapping him to reality. A mask slid up around his mouth and nose.

 

“We’ll fix you up, kiddo…”

 

* * *

 

His arm hurt from where he had an IV drip attached and his eyes hurt from lack of sleep. He couldn’t afford the medical bills and had pressured a night nurse into letting him slip out to use the vending machine “for a candy bar, missus please, I ain’t goin’ nowhere promise” and slipped out of a janitorial entrance. He took the dirty rag of a shirt they had put into an evidence bag for the police to examine out of his room smuggled under his paper thin dressing gown to wrap his shoulder with and picked the lock on a donation bin outside the hospital to get some clothing. He managed to find his sneakers intact at the foot of his bed, thankfully, complete with secure lifesavings kept in the lining of the sole hidden away. He tightly tied the sneakers to his feet, just in case he had to run and make a break for it, and started walking. If he kept his head down, no one would notice (hood down of course – putting a hood up made you more conspicuous; he learned that as a kid when he was pretending to be part of the Boxcar Children with Barney and started getting questions from well-meaning strangers wondering why they weren’t in school. If you walked confidently with purpose, but unassuming, people were less likely to ask questions if you didn’t look like the homeless small child that you were).

 

Clint stuffed his hands in his pockets and thought. Barney usually figured things out when they had been on the run together from the foster homes, from the system, from people who wanted to hurt them and now… now, Barney was the cause of all the problems and the hurt. The boy angrily kicked a stone at his feet, watching as it clinked and rolled along the broken cobblestone and fell straight into a grate in the road. Rain started to pour and Clint quickly realized that unless he found shelter he’d be soaked to the bone. But he was ashamed, ashamed to ask for help.

 

He didn’t need help. Last time he had accepted help, years later Barney and the very people he trusted literally stabbed him (albeit not in the back but pretty damn close). Trust wasn’t something he could easily give out anymore. The young teenager was suspicious of everyone and the only way he could prove his past wrong, and prove that he was doing the right thing was just… to just survive.

 

* * *

 

 

Via hitching rides, walking, and relying on the little luck he had, three years later he had made himself a life as a street kid running about various piers, carnivals, and cities.

 

He had just pulled himself out of a tree just outside Coney Island when a shot of bright red above in the sky streaked across as a reflection on his sunglasses conveniently lifted from a five-and-dime (though to be fair, he had paid for a few other things that day – Clint liked paying for things if he could). Clint squinted up into the sun, lowering his sunglasses to eliminate the darkened blur and finger smudges from half-scratched lenses, but it was no use, the red streak was gone. He wrote it off as his eyesight catching something in the light or… I dunno… whatever (Clint shrugged and replaced his sunglasses, he sometimes saw shit other people didn’t and just had to write it off) and slung a bag across his shoulder, tightening the draw string as he walked.

 

Back to the grinding stone.

 

Coney Island had been looking for performers and Clint had finally saved up for a nice bow and got the job; he spent all his previous savings from Carson’s and saved up even more from various odd-jobs. He wanted an honest living, he didn’t want to end up like… like Barney. He took whatever he could get, mostly without complaints, and swept floors, took out the trash, walked dogs. After months of saving, Clint took his brand new recurve to a hunting range full of rednecks with compounds practicing for bow season, bought a pack of carbon arrows until he could save up for some legit ones, and paid the range fee for the day. He shot, and shot, and shot until he could feel the twinge in his shoulder rise again and the calluses on his fingers reappearing. The feeling was like no other; he had gone nearly a year without shooting but still his aim was as true as ever. His grouping was tight, his aim accurate, and the thrum of the string releasing was exactly the sound that relieved all the past horrors associated with circus work. Elated, that night he pounded on the circus master’s office door at Coney Island and shot the top of a flagpole once the door opened.

 

“You got the job, kid. I don’t ask questions. Just be here ta’marra, eh?”

 

Wordlessly, Clint nodded and turned, sprinting into the shadows. What the circus master hadn’t seen was the broad smile on his young face as he darted off.

 

So with his bow over his shoulder and his sack on his back, Clint trudged through empty game stalls and over electrical cords zip-tied together and nailed down to the cement, making his way to the _Performers Only_ mini-trailer towards the back of the island. The corners of his mouth twitched up when he passed the ferris wheel and saw the performance tent; a second chance, and a clean slate. Couldn’t be a better opportunity.

 

He had brought his old costume with him; he had ran back to Carson’s one night a few years ago when their locations had lined up (somewhat unfortunately) and broke into the costume trunk and taken it. Fear laced his heart and lungs that night; he was terrified of finding the Swordsman, terrified of finding Barney, terrified of anyone other than Carson seeing him but it was in and out, as quick as could be, to save what he could of the life he once had. Jacques probably had his bow under lock and key, but the costume it seemed, no one had cared for at all. It was western themed, with cow skin and buckskin shin coverings harkening to his origins in Iowa.

 

But the new carnival owner at Coney Island thought it was a bit… well…

 

“It’s bland, kid. Folks out here are for showy things, ya’know? Bright lights, bright colors. Costumes are all the rage here I mean look at Stark’s bodyguard he could practically fit right in here, ya’know!” The man prodded a newspaper clipping on his notice board behind his desk where he kept local news up to date. Clint’s eyes skimmed over the headline ( _STARK’S BODYGUARD IRON MAN JOINS AVENGERS GROUP_ ) and photo and once again, he wordlessly nodded. The red metallic suit looked familiar, he couldn’t quite place it, but it was obvious he’d need something more showy, more flashy… more… _superhero_.

 

The next night, Clint sat in his very own hard earned dressing room with scraps of fabric and a bloody finger from poking a needle into himself. Purple and blue clippings fell to the floor in front of where he was scrunched into the corner, knees pulled to his chest as he hesitantly tried to sew a seam just one more time ( _just like Boxcar Children’s Jessie_ , Clint thought).

 

The boy thought to himself as he sewed on a purple H to a flared cowl with determination, _this is gonna be a good move._


	3. Beneficial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coney Island has gone well for Clint but isn't a satisfying decision. Coney Island is only temporary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter update than what I tend to aim for, but I liked the way I had gone with this and didn't want to add on to the end. Enjoy!

He couldn’t breathe. It was as if a large pile of cinderblocks had been placed upon his chest, the weight of it crushing his ribs and pushing in on his sternum and lungs; as if he were lying flat on the ground with gravel biting into his skin and blood blossoming underneath his shirt. On the contrary, Clint remained upright (mostly) and the burning, heavy sensation pulsating in his lungs came from spending the evening lunging from trapeze to trapeze while drawing back his longbow on Coney Island, and his night from running half-way across Brooklyn chasing after a whip of red-hair he had seen in the audience that night.

 

“I …. I can’t see you…” he lied, calling out into the darkness of the moldy, dirty alleyway he had managed to find. He had excellent eyesight, and could discern faint traces of movement from behind a giant green dumpster at the far end. Most of his frame, now having filled out quite nicely given the proper nutrition (well, as proper as a low wage circus job could get you – but at least he didn’t have to scrounge around for food. He was paid enough at Coney Island to keep his show going by keeping himself healthy enough to function – that was good enough) filled the entrance of the alleyway as he leaned up against the damp brick.

 

Clint pressed one palm flat against the moist bricks of the gritty apartment building and pushed himself fully upright, pausing to catch his breath. The one footstep he took forward echoed in the otherwise silent alleyway which was tucked away from the noise of the city.

 

“You are a pathetic liar,” a voice responded; it sounded as though Clint had been right on its owner’s location just beyond the dumpster, for now. He cautiously stepped forwards, fingers feeling his way along the walls as he walked.

 

“Not lying, just statin’ a fact,” Clint countered. “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know its dark back here; I can’t see ya, but I know you’re back here.”

 

In two swift seconds, the archer was the most wrong he had ever been in his life. A leather gloved hand had wrapped around his mouth, coming from nowhere in mere seconds, and had stifled any noise of surprise he had made quite quickly. He had missed the _woosh_ of his opponent’s body gracefully descending from an escape ladder. He would remember to curse at himself later, once the feeling of paranoia and brief panic subsided (if he made it out alive).

 

His admirer’s presence became more solid as it drew closer, and a deep, female voice whispered a command into his ear, “Do not speak.” Something that caused a chill to go up his spine prodded him threateningly, but gently, in the lower section of his back. He wished he could turn around and face her, whoever she was, but her arm was wrapped solidly around his neck to reach his mouth and even though it was clear from the angle of her arm that she was most likely on slight tip-toe to reach that vantage point, he could practically feel the power thrumming through her muscles. So he nodded, and she released him.

 

As Clint turned, she advanced, closing the space between them until he was pressed up against the alleyway wall yet again and she had replaced her leather gloved hand up against the wall as well, just over his shoulder. “You shoot?”

 

“I do but – ”

 

“You’re the one they call Hawkeye?”

 

Clint blinked. “Well, technically the _Amazing_ Hawkeye, but – ”

 

“You were almost arrested last week.”

 

Stunned, the archer finally glanced up and met his ‘attacker’s’ eyes. They were mostly hidden in the shadows of the alley and the night, but he could see that they were a clear green, the kind of green that would reflect an almost blue color given the right sunlight. The long red hair he had spotted in the audience of his last show and followed to this very location was tied back in a severe, slick ponytail which reached the middle of her back. Her skin was pale, but she had freckles that dotted her cheeks just under her eyes and her brows were drawn together severely as her facial expression pulled into a scowl.

 

His voice was quiet when he responded, “Have you been spying on me?”

 

The woman shrugged with one shoulder, offhandedly and disinterested in his seemingly mediocre question. “You are not exactly a hard character to find, performing for a living.” Clint scowled as well, matching the woman’s facial expression and pulling his full-frame completely upright, puffing out his stomach and attempting to appear bigger. The woman did the same and raised one quizzical brow. “What is your game plan?”

 

“I…wait, _what_?”

 

“Your plan. With your ridiculous costume and Iron Man photos and beating up people on the streets of New York.”

 

“What the hell are you on about?” Suddenly, Clint’s voice was very serious. “How long have you been tracking me and what do you even fucking care?” He crossed his arms across his chest and stared down at the woman; paranoia grasped at the edges of his stomach. The Iron Man photos he had clipped from newspapers she could have only known about if she had been in or around his trailer, the costume – which costume did she mean? The one he had been sewing for months in his room, or the one he wore out on stage? And if she had seen him beating up the guy on 45th because he stole a wallet and no one caught him (the owner had unknowingly walked off before Clint could get a word in edgewise)… she…she must’ve been up to something…

 

She was stoic, however, and did not even lower her arm from above his shoulder. “Does it matter if I have you here?”

 

He scoffed. “I guess not but you sure as hell better finish your end of this before I call for somebody.”

 

“Who, Hawkeye?”

 

He gulped, Adams apple bobbing. She could already tell when he was bluffing. This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all.

 

“I dunno, the cops – ”

 

“Were you not present in your own body when you nearly were arrested last week?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Then you shall not have your answers.”

 

Ouch. She drove a hard bargain. The woman pulled back her arm and was mimicking his closed off stance, arms crossed against her own chest as well. Clint’s eyes narrowed and alternated between looking at his attacker, and at either end of the alley (one was a dead end… one way in, one way out … unless he could climb up…). “You have two minutes. Hell, that’s being forgiving…”

 

“I can help you.”

 

His turn to raise an eyebrow. “The hell are you on about?”

 

“I can _help_ you.”

 

“With what? Whuddya think _I_ need help with?”

 

The woman’s facial expression changed fluidly, from stoic and cold, to one with a twist of a smile on her pink lips and an equally cold, but mischievous glint in her eyes. Her very posture changed, though she was still incredibly close to him (he wouldn’t dare kill her – he didn’t think he had it in him to kill, and hurting a woman was not something he ever wanted to do) she put all her weight on one leg, lifting one hip ever so slightly higher. It was almost… seductive. “You want to save people like Iron Man?”

 

Clint’s breath caught in his throat. “Maybe.”

 

The woman looked annoyed and rolled her eyes. “Do not play stupid, Hawkeye. I have watched you; I understand you. You envy the hunk of metal that flies in the sky, and the team of heroes who save kittens from trees and the sort.”

 

“Firefighters?” Sarcasm was the best biting and defensive mechanism, but all that earned him was a narrowed, piercing gaze and the unfriendly glint of metal somewhere around her belt.

 

“I can help you.”

 

“Again, what makes you think I can trust you? Even if you’ve been watchin’ me… in fact that makes me wanna trust you even less.”

 

“I have resources,” the woman examined her fingernails and shrugged. “I have worked with your sort before, I have lived as you do, and as you did. I have a reputation. I can help you.”

 

“Why would you even want to?”

 

She ignored his question and stared in response. Her gaze was cold, and it made him slightly uncomfortable, but he refused to back down.

 

Clint considered his options. He did _want_ to save people. Almost being arrested was going to ruin his career at Coney Island, not that he considered it a career really, more a gig that he never wanted to really keep - but it was something to put a roof over his head and independence on his mind. But ever since he first glimpsed Iron Man in the sky, and saw the headlines the next day and connected that the hunk of metal had been _saving_ people and helping, things he could never do as a kid, he wanted to do it too.

 

And to be completely honest, he wasn’t having much luck. Someone with a reputation _would_ help… hell, maybe he’d even be noticed and make an improvement! Maybe, he’d never have to work at a circus again…

 

“If I’m supposed to trust you, and believe you,” he began slowly, “then you need to tell me who you are.”

 

She hummed in consideration before taking one step backwards. She was confident he wouldn’t run now; she had tossed out a line and Clint had taken the first bite before it even hit the water. Clint would’ve liked to think that he could trick her, use the fire escape she had jumped down from and swing himself up and over the banister… but something had twisted itself in his stomach and poured led down his veins, effectively grounding him to the very spot he stood.

 

“Natasha.”

 

“…Natasha…” He tried the word out in his mouth and she looked annoyed that he had dared to repeat this piece of information, but let it slide and put out a hand. Cautiously, he took a step forward, off of the alleyway wall.

 

“Natasha.”

 

He shook her hand.

 

“Clint.”


	4. Different

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Natasha form a plan, but Clint's starting to get a little too cocky around the mysterious and alluring red-head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify, I'm playing with the idea from comics and the first Iron Man movie where it wasn't really clear who Iron Man was beyond "Stark's bodyguard". I'm not quite sure where this fic fits into MCU/Comicverse quite yet since it's a mash-up of different things. Happy reading!

He didn’t know what love felt like. He knew that each time he saw Natasha in the circus audience every night that week his heart flipped a little; he assumed that was what love felt like. He only knew the portrayals of what his father and his brother had shown him, which was more akin to hatred, materialism, and abuse than anything else and both were things he vowed to never, ever do himself. The day after he had met the mysterious redhead and attempted to put her aside in his mind, she filtered into his mind during his performance. From the minute he put on the cowl, he was distracted.

 

His arrows never missed, but all the while he let his eyes linger on each face in the audience every night, searching for a smattering of trademark red hair. Each night he had indeed found her and continued on as usual (if not with more gusto, enthusiasm, and dangerous flashy pride). He tried telling himself when he saw her face that she was lying to him, manipulating him, and couldn’t really help him.

 

Last time he had accepted help he ended up with a knife blade buried in his shoulder and bleeding out in the middle of nowhere. Logic asked him where he would end up this time; loyalty and the desperate need for trust had overridden partial logic.

 

The first night she wore aviators that blocked her green eyes and a dirty, blue ball-cap to hide her hair, as if daring him to call her stupid disguise out and call the authorities – to rat on her.

 

The second night she wore a motorcycle helmet and popped chewing gum in her mouth, leaning up against a pillar towards the back of the circus tent.

 

The last night before their agreed meeting he finished by splitting the nock of his last arrow, which was embedded solidly in an apple up on the trapeze platform dozens of feet in the air while hanging upside down from a lower platform. She had let her hair loose about her shoulders and wore a smirk during the entirety of his show.

 

Clint’s heart flipped faster.

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey.”

 

“What is it, Hawkeye?”

 

“Just checkin’ that this thing is working.”

 

“It is. Shut up.”

 

He tapped the rudimentary communications headset that was wrapped around his ear and gave his companion quite the shit-eating grin. Natasha turned out to be a very skilled…well, Clint wasn’t sure what to call her. He was trying to get information out of her concerning her personal life, since she seemed to know everything about his (aside from the shit with Barney that he had experienced right through childhood up to the …incident – no one else knew about that and Clint preferred to keep it that way) but she wasn’t yielding. Clint had determined that she wasn’t American; her accent was heavily tinted with an Eastern European or Russian heaviness sometimes, yet she could mimic his own Western drawl in a heartbeat. Maybe it was her mysteriousness that attracted him so quickly…

 

Natasha tightened two black bands around her wrists that were loaded with small black cylinders. Clint eyed them suspiciously; she hadn’t been wearing them when they had first met in the alleyway, nor when they met in a different alleyway near Paco’s Taco Stand after his last show to discuss plans. “What are those?”

 

“Bites.”

 

“…Don’t look like they have teeth.”

 

“Of course not,” Natasha quipped.

 

Clint narrowed his eyes as he checked the arrows in his quiver. “So how can they bite?”

 

Her fingers pressed somewhere on the underside of the band on her left wrist, and Clint’s ears picked up a slight crackle in the air and blue undertones appeared on the bullet-like black casings on her wrists. A smirk crossed her face. “Do you really want to know?”

 

 “No, no, that’s alright,” he stated quickly, averting his gaze instead to his bow. Natasha seemed satisfied with his answer and pressed another button on both bands before checking each holster strapped to her thigh, lower leg, and back before finally slipping a small knife into her calf-high boot. “Seems an awful lot for a take down of a techie.”

 

“You do know who this man works for, yes?”

 

“No.”

 

“Liar.”

 

“Yeah, whatever, fine,” Clint huffed, “Mallard Wentworth, lackey of Tony Stark, whose body guard is Iron Man – hey, when I said I wanted to be _like_ Iron Man I didn’t mean steal from and possibly kill a person his boss knows.”

 

“You are not stealing. Or killing.”

 

“Just an awful lot of precaution for a welcome wagon, then.”

 

He wouldn’t lie, Clint was nervous for this. He’d never admit it to her face to face, but inside his stomach felt quite nauseous. Natasha hadn’t revealed any details other than the target they had in mind was connected to Tony Stark and Iron Man in a way which would enable Clint to connect with the billionaire and furthermore – the Avengers. Natasha stood and offered a hand to help her temporary partner up off the ground. Clint took it with suspicion and pulled himself up, eyes lingering on her black leather gloves. She began to explain.

 

“I’m stealing.”

 

“Stealing what?”

 

“Whatever Wentworth has on him at the time, it’s Stark Tech. The abduction of which will draw Iron Man or Stark, out of the headquarters and that’s when you ‘save it’,” she offered coolly.

 

Clint shouldered his quiver. “What’s in it for you?”

 

Their eyes locked for a brief second and her response was merely a quirk of her brow before lifting herself onto the fire escape ladder and pulling herself up. She climbed a few steps, Clint still at the bottom and gazing upwards, before she replied to him vocally. “Practice,” was her only answer.

 

The archer let out a deep breath and shook his head before placing his hands on the ladder. “This better work…” he mumbled, and began to climb.

 

* * *

 

That night had been a practice run. It started to rain, and rain, and rain while he perched up on the apartment building two blocks to the west of Stark Industries while Natasha (as she informed him briefly on the coms) flitted about various entrances and exits around the building. For another week, a few hours before his evening performances, they’d enter their positions and run through various situations.

 

Clint fought the urge to roll his eyes. “I ain’t got anything up here, Natasha,” he’d whisper at the end of each day when the situation would pan out the same. Their subject was a very predictable one, or at least it appeared so from above.

 

Monday, Natasha laid a hand on his shoulder and stopped him from climbing the fire escape ladder. “We’re doing ground work today.” She tossed a backpack at his chest and turned away from him, crossing her arms.

 

With a raised brow, Clint unzipped the backpack and glanced inside to see a black “I <3 NY” hat that had probably seen better days and a blue zip-up sweatshirt. Underneath the sweatshirt was a camera with a large lens, almost the kind that tourists brought to Ellis Island, or the kind that paparazzi had in the bushes of Stark’s house. It looked relatively new. Clint did not know anything about cameras but when he pulled the device out, he discovered that he could zoom pretty damn far. A few minutes later, he dared to ask. “Where’d you get this?”

 

“I have resources.”

 

“Why do I need a camera?”

 

Natasha turned back, having done her hair down her back in a simple plait while Clint had been rummaging through the bag. She pulled on a wide brim bucket hat and flashed him the prettiest smile he had ever seen cross her usually stony face. Instantly, she had transformed in front of him. She looked younger, her eyes crinkled at the corners and twinkled, and her ears lifted ever so slightly with her grin. And then, in an instant, it was gone. She reached behind her head and wrapped the final hair-band in place.

 

“It’s called reconnaissance.”

 

15 minutes later Natasha had slipped on a bright purple (Clint’s stomach flipped again) jacket of her own and pulled them into a café. Upon sitting down at a booth near the front with a large window facing the street, she nudged Clint’s shin with her foot (somewhat aggressively) and handed him two five dollar bills under the table. With a slight jerk of her head, he followed the direction and noticed the menu. Three things were on the menu. Turns out they had wandered into an extremely upscale café which only offered the house brew, plain black tea, or iced sparkling water. Clint scoffed and felt out of place but when the waitress came over, he felt stunned. All survival skills promptly went out the window. Natasha hadn't explained anything concerning what they were doing in the cafe, what sort of roles they had with one another, what the cover plan was. He gulped.

 

“And what can I get the lovely couple today?”

 

Panicked, Clint’s gaze locked with Natasha’s, but the sparkling five-star smile was back in place and she flashed it at the waitress. “I’ll have a coffee, and sugar please.” Her accent was laced heavily with a New Jersey twist and Clint blinked, astonished.

 

She kicked him again and he placed the money on the table, feeling lost. He coughed. “Um. W…Water.”

 

Sensing his fear, she turned to the waitress again. “He can’t have caffeine.” Natasha smiled and patted his hand fondly.

 

“Please,” Clint continued; his brain was operating on a delay, caught off guard at having to put up his shield so quickly. The waitress murmured and took the bills Clint had placed on the table before mentioning that she would bring back the change when the coffee was ready.

 

His partner pulled out a map and a tourist travel book from her own brown leather bag and plopped them on the table; she propped one elbow up, resting her hand in her chin and appearing lackadaisical, but when she whispered to him, her voice was deadly and low. “I watched you Hawkeye, you’re good at blending in and all of the sudden you’re as dumb as a bag of bricks.”

 

His cheeks tinged and he pulled out the camera, resting it on the table and fiddling with the controls. “It threw me off. I had no warning.”

 

She tilted her head to the side and poked at a completely different area of the map on the table, smiling at him as she fluttered her lashes. Another flip. “You shouldn’t need and you won’t always get a warning. You survived at least 18 years without one.” Ashamed and determined, Clint looked down at the map and aggressively pointed to another spot on the map just as the waitress moved over with a glass of water and Natasha’s black (with two sugars) coffee.

 

“We need to get here by six,” he stated firmly. His own blue eyes glinted. He could never resist a challenge and despite the fact that he still didn’t know what _kind_ of recon. they were doing, it was time to get serious. The waitress looked down at the map and sat down the change.

 

“Times Square?” She laughed. “Honey, there ain’t no way you’re getting over there by six. Rush hour in NYC.” She raised a brow at his hat and shook her head. “Better off just waiting here until traffic dies down.”

 

Natasha seized the opportunity and widened her eyes, appearing confused. “So it’s far away from here?”

 

“…Well, yeah.”

 

“When does rush hour end in this neighborhood?” Clint questioned, leaning back in his side of the booth and giving the waitress (Hannah – Clint read the nametag pinned to her shirt) a bright smile.

 

Hannah placed a hand on her hip and looked exasperated; she wasn’t falling for his smooth talking, but at least she was considerate. She pointed a thumb over her shoulder out the main door. “Stark Tech lets people out anywhere between five and ten; odd bunch, but some work later than others. Doesn’t die down until ‘bout seven. After that it’s a bunch of stragglers who probably go home and sleep on the sofa instead of a bed. Best stay in the area.”

 

When she walked away, Natasha folded up the map and looked pointedly at the camera.

Clint understood now. Take photos of the people who came out of the building, when they came out. Each photo would be time stamped. Physical proof of who came out when, and if they could target Wentworth at the right time without anyone else around, the plan could go off without a hitch. He flipped the switch on the camera and pointed it out the window.

 

“See, dear?” Her sickeningly sweet ‘told you so’ voice whispered. Natasha put the sugar cubes in her coffee and stirred, almost humming with satisfaction when the first drop hit her tongue.

 

Clint grumbled and adjusted the focus.

 

“I got the Intel out of her. It was my idea.”


End file.
